


untitled 512 (whenever i'm alone with you)

by traveller



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Past Sexual Coercion, Past Violence, Red Room, Sexual Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first night Natasha pushes him down onto the bed and works her way up his body, and he feels like he’s being devoured. Her focus is overwhelming. She stops with her breasts pressed hot and plump against his chest, her hand on his dick and her mouth just brushing his. </em>
</p><p><em>"Tell me what you want, Sam," she says, darting her tongue over his lips, and Sam groans and tells her, </em>Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled 512 (whenever i'm alone with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Implied past sexual coercion and trauma, mentions of past violence. 
> 
> [originally posted on Tumblr.](http://ceeturnalia.tumblr.com/post/85580329608)

The first night Natasha pushes him down onto the bed and works her way up his body, and he feels like he’s being devoured. Her focus is overwhelming. She stops with her breasts pressed hot and plump against his chest, her hand on his dick and her mouth just brushing his. 

"Tell me what you want, Sam," she says, darting her tongue over his lips, and Sam groans and tells her, _Everything._

It’s not till she’s gone, till Sam’s standing in the shower trying to steam some of the lust fog out of his brain, that he realizes she didn't ever say anything about herself. She never once said yes, there, please, more; she never redirected his hands, or pushed his head where she wanted it. 

He hates that, hates himself for not asking, for just taking from her. He’s better than that. She deserves better than that.

He gets out of the shower and changes the sheets.

\- 

She comes over a couple nights later, watches two innings of the Yankees game with him and then she rides him right there on the couch, and he has to bite his lip to keep from screaming when she flexes her pussy on his dick.

"That’s so good, baby," he sighs, kissing her mouth, her jaw, her neck. "Do you like that?"

”So good,” she echoes, digging her nails into his shoulders, and Sam accepts that, he really does, and stops talking.

\- 

Their dates are mostly glorified booty calls. He’s pretty well aware of that by the end of the first couple of weeks, when they’ve fucked on every sturdy flat surface in his apartment and half the not so sturdy ones. She’s blown him in the shower and in the back of a cab; and surprised him with a quickie in the locker room after annihilating him on a paintball date.

She never asks for anything. When he tries to get her say something, express a preference, anything, she says, I like what you’re doing right now. She says, this is so good, Sam. She says something that’s enough to convince him in the moment, something that never seems real for long afterward.

She never talks about their relationship. If he brings it up, she deflects him so skillfully that half the time he doesn’t even know it happened.

\- 

Tonight she comes out of the shower and starts getting dressed — she doesn’t sleep over, he’s not sure she sleeps at all. He watches her, watches her graceful, economic movements, the swing of her damp hair and the bounce of her breasts. He sits up, leaning back on the headboard, and he says, “Listen, Tash. I’m not having a good time if you’re not having a good time, okay?”

She snaps her bra into place and looks at him, her head tilted curiously. “What are you talking about?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Tell me one thing you like. Just one thing. Right now while you’re standing there and I don’t have my hands on you and you can’t distract me.” 

Natasha pulls her hair out of the collar of her shirt, and smiles slow and dirty. “Oh, I could distract you from over here.” 

"That’s it, that shit right there," Sam says, exasperated. "That’s what makes me wonder if I’m even fucking you when I’m fucking you.”

He knows he’s fucked up as soon as the words are out his mouth. Natasha goes still, quiet in a way he’s only ever seen her be when she’s got a gun in her hand. 

"Well, you can fuck yourself," she says, her voice calm and even. She scoops up her shoes and leaves.

She doesn’t even slam the door.

\- 

Days pass and he’s not worried, exactly, he knows Steve has seen her, he knows she’s at least physically present and okay, but there are very few people who know what goes on in that woman’s head and he doesn’t know if she’s actually okay.

He tells Steve, when they’re untaping in the gym after a workout. “It pisses me off, okay?” he says. “It’s like I’m allowed to fuck her but I’m not allowed to know her.”

Steve shrugs. “She’s pretty angry with you for pushing, I think. She hasn’t said anything in so many words, I can just tell.”

"Oh yeah, YOU can just tell." Sam laughs, a little bitter. "Must be nice."

"For what it’s worth, it took an attempted genocide for her to open up to me." Steve flashes him a grin, and Sam can’t help grinning back. It’s good to see Steve smiling, and meaning it.

"Shit, you always gotta get one-up," he complains. "Go home to your boyfriend and get out of my sight, Captain Asshole."

"Hey, for what it’s worth, it’s not like I don’t understand what it’s like to be with somebody who’s hard to reach," Steve says, his expression softening.

"Man, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking," Sam says. He shakes his head. "That’s not what—" 

"Nah, it’s fine, we’re good, he’s better, I’m just sympathizing." Steve pulls the last of the tape off his hands and tosses it in the trash. "It takes time."

"Well, I don’t know if I got that," Sam sighs. "I don’t know if she’s ever coming back."

Steve’s grin returns. “Since she didn’t break your arms and legs and leave you for dead, you’ll probably see her again.”

Sam punches him in the shoulder, and it’s worth the pain.

\- 

It’s a Thursday night when she knocks on his door. It’s been almost two weeks, and he’s suddenly so hurt and angry again when he sees her face, it feels like his blood pressure rises. She stares at him while he counts to ten; while he lets out a long exhale and really looks at her.

She looks tired and uncomfortable in a way he’s almost never seen her. He opens the door the rest of the way, and moves to the side to let her in. “The Yanks are the top of the fifth. Do you know if you like baseball?”

He knows it’s rude, he knows, but she doesn’t call him on it. She just rolls her eyes at him, pushes by and says, “I hate baseball.” 

Sam turns around, closes and locks the door before following. 

Natasha looks around and then sits down on the far end of the couch, away from the obvious dent where he’d been slouched, his beer sweating on the corner of the coffee table. She folds her hands on her lap. 

"When I was young they trained us to go undercover as Americans," she says in a bland, matter of fact tone. "They gave us this course in the things they thought American girls would know about. Pop stars and hairstyles and TV shows and clothes. And one of the girls asked, what about baseball? Baseball is the American game. And the handlers said, baseball is for boys. Then they beat her, and put her in reconditioning for a month."

Sam swallows, circles the couch to pick up the remote and turns off the TV. The smile that Natasha gives him then is so, so brittle, and it makes him ache.

"Sometimes," she says, looking up at him steadily, "I don’t know if what I like or what I don’t like is because it was something that was beaten into me, or out of me, or if it’s because it’s what some target wanted on some op and I got used to it, and sometimes questioning those things makes me so crazy that it’s easier to just put it all in boxes." 

Sam drops down on his end of the couch and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.” 

"And I thought," she goes on, like he hasn’t said anything, "I hoped, that maybe it was enough to know that I liked being with you. Everything we did made me feel good. I got off. You got off. It was fun. I don’t know why you kept asking me to talk, to think."

"Because I want to know you," Sam says, instantly frustrated again. "I don’t just want to know how you like to fuck, I want to know what flowers you like, how you like your eggs, which is your favorite James bond, and I want to know what you hate, too. I want to know you’ll tell me if I touch you in a way you don’t like, or that reminds you of something bad, that you won’t just accept what I want if you don’t want it too. And even if we never sleep together again, I want to know you as a friend."

Natasha is quiet for a moment and Sam wants so bad to reach out and touch her, but then she says, “Tulips. Scrambled. Connery.”

Sam looks up. “Really? Not Craig?”

Natasha shrugs. He still can’t read her expression, but it’s warmer. It’s definitely warmer. “Connery was uncomplicated and unrealistic, the plots aren’t too much like work. But not campy like Moore. And sexy.”

“And brutally sexist,” Sam points out. 

She shrugs again. “I dig the lisp.”

He shakes his head. “You know I ain’t doing the voice.”

"You don’t have to, I like your voice."

They’re quiet again, Sam trying to figure out what he should say next. It feels like he never knows what to say to her.

"I’ve never had a relationship that wasn’t also a job,” she says into the silence. “I don’t know how." 

That he has an answer for. “Baby, nobody knows how to do relationships. Anybody who tries to tell you different is lying and probably selling something.”

Natasha gets up, moving slow, unzips her jacket and drops it on the floor. She kicks out of her boots and he shakes his head when she straddles his lap and she kisses him, all sweet and hungry. “Is this what you want?” he asks, nipping at her lip. 

“I want you,” she says. “I like you. Can we start there?”

“Uh, yeah, I think we can probl—mm.”

He carries her into the bedroom with her legs wrapped around his hips, his hands spread wide over her ass. “I like this,” she says, in between kisses. 

They undress together, stretch out on top of the covers with the very last of the summer sunset coming in the window. Sam takes his time with her breasts, loving the way they turn pink under his mouth, the way they spill out of his hands. She tips her head back and tells him yes, more. 

He goes down on her and she says she loves his mouth, loves the way he eats her pussy, digs her nails into the back of his head and shakes when he licks hard over her clit. He slips a finger inside, and she softly says, “No, don’t.”

“Sorry, baby, sorry,” Sam whispers, putting both his hands on her hips and kissing her belly.

“Shut up,” she says; hauls him up to kiss her and licks over his lips. When she finally lets him have some air her mouth is red and swollen, her chin scratched up from his beard.

“Jesus, you are beautiful,” he sighs.

She likes his hands all over the rest of her body, and his mouth, and he spends ages finding all the spots that make her quiver and say yes. Behind her knees, the small of her back, the soft swell of the inside of her thigh. Her wrists, the hollow at the base of her throat.

When he finally eases into her he’s on top, she’s stretched out under him with her hands tight on his biceps. She tilts her hips and says, slow, but hard, so that’s what he does, he fucks her at a measured pace, driving hard each time, listens to the sounds that she makes that this time seem to be surprised out of her.

He reaches for her clit and she pushes his hand away and takes care of herself, he fucks her through her orgasm and they’re both surprised when she comes again a moment later. 

“I guess we found something you like,” Sam says, laughing and breathless, and Natasha tightens down on his dick and says, “C’mon, your turn.”

After, when they’re lying there sticky and tangled up, when he’s petting her sweaty hair and she’s got her cheek pressed to his chest, just over his heart, she says quietly, “I want to know you too.” 

"That’s a start,” Sam says, kissing the top of her head. “That’s a real good start.”


End file.
